by Tamara Leigh
“The residents will appreciate that.”
“Another thing. I apologize for the water fight—not sure what came over me.”
I glance at him and am struck that, once more, we’re taking a night stroll.
“Still…” He shrugs. “You have to admit it was fun.”
It was not! Well, maybe a little…
“And, since I’m in the apologizing mood, I’m sorry for taking your pew.”
I jerk my chin around. He did notice the plaque.
He halts in front of my mobile home. “I’ve heard of church members staking out pews, but I’ve never seen one marked.”
“It’s not my pew. Anyone can sit there.”
“Then?”
I hate explaining what I’ve had to explain over and over again. In fact, before I blew out of Dad’s church at the age of eighteen, I was so fed up, I pried off the plaque, bent it back on itself, and tossed it. When the prodigal returned two years later, there it was. Mom and Harriet had rooted through the church trash until they found it. As a repentant twenty-year-old, I’d stared at the plaque with its kink, and my heart felt as if it might drown at further evidence of the pain my rebellion had caused. Though I still don’t care for the plaque, I accept it for what it means to my parents and the older members of the congregation.
I meet Maddox’s gaze. “The plaque is a commemoration.”
“Of?”
“My birth.”
“Why on a pew?”
“Because I was born on the floor in front of that pew.” I cross my arms over my chest. “My mother never missed my father’s sermons. When she arrived at church that day, she was in labor but kept it to herself as she was determined to make it through the service.”
“You’re telling me that no one noticed a woman in the front row huffing and puffing?”
“Apparently not. She was very discreet.”
Through my open living room window comes the ring of the phone. Another senior concerned about today’s music? Over the next two rings, I say, “Before the ambulance arrived, I was born with the aid of our secretary, Harriet Evans, after whom I’m named.”
Maddox’s mouth curves. “Astonishing.”
“And now you know my deepest, darkest secret.”
Up goes an eyebrow. “I doubt that.”
As I struggle for a diversion, Maddox returns to the topic I caused to jump the tracks. “According to the date on the plaque, you’re about to turn twenty-eight.”
Another liability of Mom and Dad’s attempt to publicly commemorate my birth. “That’s right.”
The phone starts up again, and I grimace.
“Ringing off the hook?”
Not as much as expected, but he doesn’t need to know that. “And knocking at my door. The older folks are concerned about the music and the organ’s demise.”
He pushes his hands into his pockets. “It’s perfectly normal. In fact, if no one complained, First Grace would likely have an even bigger problem on its hands.”
“What do you mean?”
“A healthy church is diverse. The challenge is to strike a compromise between traditional and contemporary worship without dividing the body of believers.”
“And you think such a compromise can be found?”
“That’s what I’ve been hired to do—revive First Grace while keeping as many of its older members involved as possible.”
“You’re talking idealism, not realism.”
He takes a step toward me. “Look, Harri, I’m not saying we won’t lose members over the changes. We will, and most of those lost will likely be older members, but if we work together, First Grace will come out of this a better church.”
As I stare at him, I’m shaken by an impulse to brush back the curl in the middle of his forehead. Not only does it make him seem exceedingly young, but vulnerable. And appealing. None of which fits the man who has come to shake up my father’s church.
“Really bad timing,” he murmurs, drawing my gaze to his mouth.
In the next instant I realize he knows exactly where I’m staring and that his self-confessed tendency to make assumptions is working overtime. I look up. “What do you mean ‘bad timing’?”
“You know what I mean.”
Do I? Well, if I do, I’m not admitting it, especially because I could be wrong. “Sorry, no.”
He sighs. “I like you, Harri, and like it or not, you like me. And I don’t think it’s entirely because of my motorcycle.”
I drop my jaw. “I do not like you. Or your stupid motorcycle.”
“Then Stephano Fox is more your type?” He raises his eyebrows. “Eligible, prominent, rich—”
“Oh, grow up!” I snatch my pot from him and stomp up the steps to my front door. “And while you’re at it”—I look at where he stands in the middle of my little lawn—“get a haircut.”
Surprise crosses his face. “Haircut?”
“It’s time someone told you that it’s not appropriate for a man your age to appear so…” What? Appealing? Disarming? Cute? “…boyish.”
His face splits with a grin, which gives way to laughter.
As I cast about for something to put him in his place, he strides to the stairs. “This is who I am, Harri. Though I’m conscious of my position and influence, and I adjust when necessary, I don’t try to be someone I’m not. More important than my transportation, music, clothes, or the length of my hair, is what’s inside.”
I don’t like where this is going, but as much as I long to retreat, I’m rooted.
“Like you, I was a rebel—and in some ways, still am—but just because I’ve gotten right with God doesn’t mean I can no longer express myself and enjoy life.” He peers closer at me across the darkening night. “Of course, you can’t say the same, can you? For fear you’ll go bad again, you hide among people two and three times your age and deny yourself what you want.”
How does he know what I want? I do not want a motorcycle, or music that moves my body, or clothes that flatter—
“Truth is, you don’t trust yourself. More, you don’t trust God.”
I draw a deep breath. “Truth is, Maddox McCray, you don’t know me.” I open the screen door. “Good night.” Chin up, I retreat inside my mobile home and cross to my answering machine. Only two messages. Well, at least the return calls will keep my mind off that motorcycle-riding, supposedly reformed rebel.
Harri’s Log: • 1 day until The Coroner rerun
• 3 days until the next showdown between Bea and the invaders
• 23 days until Jelly Belly replenishment (missing them bad!)
• 207 days until the completion of Bible #8
You’re next.” A voice tickles my eardrum.
What’s he doing here? He never eats at the café. I look over my shoulder into one of the yummiest faces to be found in these parts. Kissable lips melt into a smile that grooves his mouth and displays beautifully-shaped teeth. Why is he still single?
“Hi, Harri.”
He continues to invade my personal space. Not that I mind. “You surprised me, Stephano.”
“Mission accomplished.” He steps back.
How I’m tempted to tell him I’ll share my personal space with him anytime. Lowering my order pad, I turn to him. He looks good—designer golf shirt, relaxed khaki shorts, and flip-floppish sandals without the $5.99 price tag I’m accustomed to (probably more like $59.99). “What are you doing here?”
He glances at the other diners, most of whom have at least a good thirty years on him. “The same as everyone else—having breakfast.”
“Oh…well, of course.” I push back the strands that have escaped my ponytail. And that’s when I remember his peculiar opening line. “What do you mean I’m next?”
His teeth disappear from his smile. “The shadow—McCray.”
Maddox, who has spent the past three days “observing” the staff of First Grace. To my relief, I’ve been spared, though not much longer, apparently. “When?”
&nb
sp; Stephano rocks back on his heels, then forward, and that’s when I catch a whiff of cologne. Undoubtedly it’s expensive, but it makes my nose twitch.
“You’re his tomorrow.”
There’s that his thing again.
“As for today…” Stephano’s teeth flash again, but this time his smile looks smug. “He’s spending the day with me on the golf course.”
Hardly the place to observe Stephano in the role of administrative pastor. Ah. I narrow my lids. “Since when is Thursday a golf day?”
He winks and, to my surprise, taps my nose. “Since I got bored with Fridays. You see, Harri, there are certain benefits to not being on the payroll.”
I wouldn’t know.
“Ah!” He settles to his heels. “Look who’s here.”
I follow his gaze to Maddox, who’s closing in on us. I have no reason to feel guilty over how near Stephano and I are standing; nevertheless, I take a step back.
Stephano thrusts a hand at Maddox. “Glad you could make it.”
As they unclasp hands, Maddox looks at me. “Hello, Harri.”
It’s the most he has said to me since his lecture on Sunday. But that’s probably because I’ve steered clear of him.
“Hello, Maddox.” I look him over. He may not like the idea of observing First Grace’s administrative pastor on the golf course, but he won’t appear out of place dressed as he is in an outfit similar to Stephano’s.
“So, do we seat ourselves?” Maddox asks.
“No. Gloria will.” Of course, then she might seat them at one of my tables.
“Just make sure she seats us at one of your tables,” Stephano says.
Groan. “Actually, all my tables are—”
“The Pansy table just opened up, Harri.” Gloria appears over Maddox’s shoulder.
Thank you. I look around. Melody, who has become increasingly efficient these past days in the absence of coddling, has finished clearing the table. I return to Gloria. “Yes, but—”
Gloria waves a hand. “Right this way, gentlemen.”
So I’m to be stuck waiting on them. Not that I’m ashamed of waitressing. Though I earned a bachelor’s degree in business administration while working part time at the café and previous to taking on the position of director of women’s ministry, I love my job. It’s just too early in the morning for a dose of Maddox.
“Good job on the Pansy table,” I say as Melody cautiously carries a bin past.
She blinks behind her thick glasses, then bursts into a smile. “Thanks, Har…ri.”
Resisting the temptation to relieve her of the dishes, I cross to the Dogwood table that’s waiting on its check, then it’s on to the Pansy table.
“What can I get you to drink?” I pull my pad from my apron.
Maddox looks up. “Coffee—full octane, black.”
Goes with the hair and the motorcycle.
Stephano peers over the top of his menu. “I’ll take a large glass of milk.”
My kind of guy—clean-cut, wholesome, and drives a car. Well, on occasion a truck. And mustn’t forget that souped-up Jeep he drove to the church picnic last year.
“I’m ready to order if you’re ready, Stephano.”
Stephano lowers the menu. “Three no-yolk scrambled eggs and buckwheat pancakes.”
“A nice, healthy choice.” I turn to Maddox. “For you?”
“I’ll have the biscuits and gravy that Jack Butterby recommended.” He hands me the menu. “I’d also like two eggs over easy.”
“Not exactly a healthy choice.”
“No, but I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bite.”
“They’re your arteries.”
Maddox just smiles.
Stephano shifts a frown from Maddox to me. Guess I shouldn’t have said anything about Maddox’s arteries. “I’ll be back with your drinks.”
Lisa corners me at the beverage station. “That’s Stephano Fox, isn’t it?”
“Yep.” I lift the coffeepot.
“And the other one?”
“Maddox McCray.”
“The consultant First Grace hired.”
Word sure gets around. I pour Maddox’s coffee. “That’s him, all right.”
She pushes a hand up through her short brown bob. “Lucky you. Two eligible men among a sea of seniors, and they’re yours.”
“Hardly.” I sidestep, retrieve a glass, and dispense Stephano’s milk.
“Well, let me know how it goes.”
“Yup.”
Fortunately, the next half hour proves tolerable, as I time my trips to the Pansy table to coincide with ongoing conversation. I slip in, slip out, and supply single-word responses to their requests for more coffee, milk, and condiments.
“Can I get you anything else?” I lift Stephano’s plate, which is barely half cleared. Either he didn’t like the buckwheat pancakes and no-yolk eggs, or he wasn’t hungry.
He glances at his watch. “Just the check. Our tee time’s in twenty minutes.”
“One check or two?”
“One.” He winks. “I’d say this qualifies as a business expense.”
I turn to Maddox and lift his plate, which is just shy of licked clean. “Be right back.” Sliding his plate beneath Stephano’s, I turn to find Melody right in front of me. Lurching back to prevent a collision, I lose my balance, stumble sideways into Maddox, and seat myself hard on the table in front of him. The remains of Stephano’s breakfast is tilting toward Maddox, but fortunately for him, I’m really good at what I do.
“Nice save,” Maddox says as I right the dishes with minimal clatter. Not that the mishap doesn’t draw the attention of the other diners.
I look down and meet his gaze. However, I’m allowed only a glimpse of his amusement before his outstretched arm draws my regard. I follow it to his hand to find it turned around my upper arm. Why didn’t I feel its steadying influence?
Ha! No current. See, I’m not attracted to him! However, the moment he uncurls his fingers, I nearly go limp. Well, maybe there was a bit of electricity. Ever so slight.
I’m tempted to flick the grin off his lips, especially when something forbidden rises between us. A kind of breathlessness that transports me back ten years to a musclebound guy named Harley who drove a Harley and who took a rebellious, infatuated teenager for a ride down paths she never wants to travel again.
“Yeah, nice save,” Stephano belatedly concurs, as if to remind us of his presence.
I whip my head around, and he raises his eyebrows, making me intensely aware that I’m sitting on a table between two men. Clutching the dishes, I stand. “I’ll expect a very nice tip for saving your clothes from baptism by breakfast.”
“Absolutely,” Maddox says.
Melody has retreated several feet and is blinking behind her glasses.
“Sorry, Har…ri.” Her voice is tearful. “I was coming to… help.”
I hasten forward. “It’s okay.” I steal a peek past her to where Gloria watches the scene from behind her arbor, bottom lip caught between her teeth, as if for fear Melody might break down in the middle of the restaurant.
I smile at the young woman. “No harm, no foul.”
“No harm, no…?”
“Foul.” I give the dishes a nod. “Want to help me get these to the kitchen?”
“Okay.”
As she looks around for a bin, I determine a bit of confidence building is in order. “Hold out your hands.”
She frowns but reaches out, and I pass the dishes off with a silent prayer that “coddling” wouldn’t have been a better idea.
I watch her head slowly toward the kitchen, then turn and, ignoring Maddox, clear the remainder of the table. “Be back with your check.”
“What about my coffee?” creaks a little old lady when I near the Magnolia table.
“Right away, Miss Julia.”
“Uh, Harri,” says Lum, from the mobile home park, as I pass the Rose table where he and Elva are seated, “think our waffles are done yet?”
I duck into the kitchen, and Lisa appears. “Close one. Thought for sure that Maddox guy was going to wear Stephano’s breakfast.”
“Me too.” I unload next to the dishes Melody brought in ahead of me.
“I did it!” the young woman trills with a huge smile that contrasts sharply with her horror minutes earlier.
“Yes, you did.” I pat her shoulder. “Thank you for helping.”
“Wel…come.”
“Now I need to prepare a check for the Pansy table, get coffee for the Magnolia table, and check on the Rose table’s waffles. Oh! And the Daisy table hasn’t ordered.”
Does anyone other than a server have any idea of all the juggling involved in waiting tables?
“I’ll get the coffee to the Magnolia table,” Lisa offers, “and check on the waffles.”
“Are your feet clean? ’Cause I’m about to kiss them.”
She laughs. “Don’t worry. I’ll find a way for you to make it up to me.”
Uh-oh. However, there isn’t time to determine if it would be better to risk frustrating my customers.
Shortly, I place the Pansy table check in front of Stephano. “Thank you for coming.” I sweep my smile to Maddox. “Pay at the door, and don’t forget that nice tip.”
“Taken care of,” he says, and I’m just a little worried by the calculating look in his eyes.
Lord, please don’t let it be one of those “wise guy” tips I occasionally receive from those who expect quality, made-to-order food in fast-food time. I grimace in remembrance of a guy who wrote in the tip blank, “Don’t play in the streets at night.” It ruined my day, especially after he monopolized my time with a leisurely stroll through the menu and a change of order minutes before his original order came up.
After Stephano and Maddox make their exit, Gloria motions me to the hostess stand. “I was asked to give you something.”
Certain this has something to do with Maddox’s tip, as he didn’t leave one on the table, I steel myself for what’s likely to disappoint. Thus, I’m rendered bug-eyed when she sets a little red and white packet in front of me.